


Close Your Eyes, Give Me Your Hand

by speakpirate



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/F, Post "A Year in the Life"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 14:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9076552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: It seems like everyone is always assuming they're a couple.  A story where Paris and Rory begin to realize that everyone, in this case, might just be on to something.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lco123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lco123/gifts).



> _A little holiday present for lco123. Thank you for being an excellent writing partner and a great friend._
> 
>    
>  _Spoilers through the Netflix revival._
> 
> \------------------------------------------------

Richard Gilmore’s funeral is a stately and dignified affair. 

When Digger Stiles makes a pass at a woman who turns out to be Christopher Hayden’s latest piece of arm candy, Paris hustles all three of them outside before their raised voices attract attention. She helps Christopher into his coat and turns him over to his chauffeur with a jaunty wave.

When Aunt Totsy arrives smelling like she bathed in a vat of Eau de Bordello, it’s Paris who pretends to admire her dress while two maids discreetly Febreze her from behind.

When Cousin Marilyn is making her way towards the door with a purse stuffed with bar glasses and a pilfered humidor in her cleavage, it’s Paris who meets her at the door, arms folded over her chest and a take no prisoners look on her face. 

“I’m sorry - who are you again?” Marilyn asks, in a tone of high dudgeon. “Because, you see - dear Cousin Richard always meant for me to have these.”

“I’m the woman who is two seconds away from calling the police,” Paris responds, just as Rory appears at her side.

“Paris,” Rory says, “you have got to call off the dogs.”

“Dogs?” Marilyn repeats, sounding alarmed.

“A terrified caterer named Sammy just tried to follow me into the bathroom because _someone_ threatened him with bodily harm if his tray of pop tart kebobs and cheese sticks got more than three feet from my right elbow.”

“I’m not sorry,” Paris says flatly. “You have to eat.”

“Oh, I see,” Marilyn says, with a nod. She inserts herself between Paris and Rory, taking each of their elbows as if they’re about to pose for a vintage postcard. “Lorelai - the original Lorelai, I mean - had a female companion herself. All those years she was in London. Far be it for me to name drop, but Philippa was a Trefusis on her mother’s side, and her grandmama was a mistress to Edward VII.” 

She steers them all towards the front door as she continues, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “She stayed abroad to keep it from Richard. The boy lionized his father. But the two of them were quite happy together, sharing good scotch and great literature in their flat off Russell Square. As comfortable as a pair of house slippers.”

She drops their arms and turns to Rory. “You have her spirit. Richard always said so, even if he didn’t know the half of it. Now give me a kiss goodbye, child.”

Rory hugs her goodbye and kisses her obediently on the cheek. Marilyn floats out into the night, giving them one last jovial wave over her shoulder.

“She’s a mess,” Rory says, shaking her head. “But she has good stories.” She closes the door and stands with her back against it, closing her eyes. 

Paris stares at her for a long moment, taking in her pale features, her simple black dress, the exhaustion in her posture. She puts an arm around Rory’s waist, and Rory responds by resting her head gratefully on her shoulder.

“I have to go soon,” Rory says. 

Paris nods and rubs her back. “I’ll drive you.”

It’s only after Rory is out of the car, after she and her overstuffed leather bag have melted into the mass of people inside the terminal that Paris thinks about Marilyn again. 

Realizes she got away clean.

\-------

Paris has lived in this staircase prison of a house for seven years, and has never - not once - smiled one of her neighbors. This block, like everything, is a battle for dominance of limited resources; parking spaces, swings on the playground, the last jar of lavender infused jam at the farmer’s market. Doyle used to smile and wave. Which means, of course, that all the neighbors are on his side. 

Rory shows up on her doorstep the first week in December. She’s wearing a light sweater that probably hides the baby bump from most people well enough. But Paris isn’t an amateur. She looks over Rory’s shoulder at her car, parked on the street and stuffed full of boxes.

Amber, the bad dye job from across the street, looks at them curiously when she gets back from Pilates and sees Paris carrying everything inside. Paris glares, but Rory smiles and actually introduces herself. 

Five minutes later, two hulking teenage stepsons appear to help them unload.

It’s nice having another adult at the dinner table. Especially when the adult is Rory, a person who never wants to talk about Michael Bay in as a serious artist. Plus Sookie St. James keeps overnighting insanely delicious pregnancy foods - veggie burgers made from couscous, cauliflower and kale mac and cheese, sweet potato and salmon tacos. Luke Danes drives up once every two weeks with bizarrely healthy versions of diner fare. Emily Gilmore offers to hire them a private chef for the duration of the pregnancy, but settles for inviting them up to her new guesthouse over Christmas and covertly having an elevator installed while they’re away.

Paris doesn’t miss sharing a bed with Doyle at night. She’s perfectly content to take a sleeping pill and sprawl across the length of the king bed, taking up all the space without remorse or regret. But lately she finds herself stopping in the doorway of Rory’s room once the kids are asleep. They talk about the work Paris is doing at the clinic, or Rory reads excerpts from her novel out loud for feedback. Sometimes they watch old black and white movies together until they fall asleep. Paris doesn’t let herself think that it means anything. They’re good company for one another. Always have been. 

One morning she wakes up with Rory’s head pillowed on her breast. Doyle was a fitful sleeper, he always had to wear a little mask and usually kept a pillow propped against his back, making the bedding into a boundary wall between them. It’s shocking. Not the presence of a body against hers that’s warm and soft, but the realization of how it makes her feel. Kind of fizzy and delighted. It gives her pause. Enough pause that she finds herself thinking about it all day. In client meetings. On the drive home.

She imagines what Terrance would tell her. _Center your emotions, Paris. Feel your feelings, Paris._ Although it seems a bit absurd to take life advice from a guy who’s doing his second stint in minimum security over a fake prescription ring.

That night, she stays in her own room, tucked under her own Brooklinen sheets, rereading The Iliad. She’s about twenty pages in when she hears a quiet knock against the doorframe. Rory is there, wearing her pajamas that have little pictures of sushi on them. 

“I want to read to the baby,” Rory says, instead of hello. “Why do I want to read to the baby? It doesn’t even have ears yet!”

“Pregnancy and logic aren’t always compatible,” Paris tells her. She pats the space next to her for Rory to sit down, and flips back to the beginning of the book. 

_“Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles…”_

The morning of the first snow, Rory and Paris take the kids to the park. Rory makes snow angels with them and Paris supervises the construction of a small snowman. The kids are dodging behind trees having a snowball fight when Rory brushes off a park bench and pulls out a thermos of coffee. She takes a long drink, then hands it to Paris, who takes a sip and wraps her hands around the mouth it to warm them before handing it back.

Jocalyn from across the street is jogging by pushing one of those gargantuan baby strollers. 

She smiles and waves. “You two are the cutest.”

\-------------------------

Paris spends Rory’s last trimester stocking the freezer with twelve kinds of ice cream, making pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, with tater tots and a dusting of crumbled Captain Crunch smashed in between the bread for good measure. 

“Want some?” Rory offers, as she chews.

Paris shakes her head. “You probably eat that even when you’re not pregnant.”

Rory grins at her in between bites. “It’s like you know me.” 

The baby arrives in June. An adorable towheaded bundle whose birth certificate reads Lorelai Emily Gilmore, with a blank where the father’s name normally goes. Rory plans to call her Lora and to consider Logan Huntzberger more of a ghost writer than a dad - an uncredited contributor.

Paris takes three months off work. Her underlings can manage to not completely run the company into the ground. There are baby monitors installed in the nursery, the master bedroom, and the guest room, but the three of them generally end up sleeping in the same place. Paris runs her fingers through Lora’s fine blonde hair and watches her eyelids flutter. Rory is sound asleep next to her, her mouth open just enough to drool a little on the goose down pillow. Paris brushes a lock of hair behind Rory’s ear and feels a charge of tenderness shoot through her. She flops back on the pillows and stares at the pink hyacinths in the vase on the bedside table.

They go to Stars Hollow for Halloween. Hector is a pirate and Helena couldn’t make up her mind between being a doctor or a dinosaur, so Rory asked Lorelai sew up a doctasaurus costume that looks like a T Rex in a white lab coat, with a stethoscope and a headlamp to boot. She’s thrilled. Lane’s husband takes them trick or treating with Steve and Kwon.

Paris sits with Rory on Lorelai’s porch as the entire town troops by to see the baby, cute as a button in her black dress and lace handkerchief bib. 

“Meet Ruth Baby Ginsberg,” Rory announces, brightly. 

“Oh thank god,” Babette says. “I heard you were gonna name her Lorelai, and I said to Maury, I said - I can barely keep my sugar and salt straight these days. Havin’ three Lorelais would make my head spin. Which wouldn’t help with the sugar and salt situation.”

“We call her Lora,” Rory explains. Paris smirks and hands out candy.

“Is Lora short for Ruth?” Babette asks Miss Patty. “Cause Ruth only has four letters. Seems unnecessary.”

“It’s short for Lorelai,” Paris says, shortly. She sets the bowl of candy next to Rory and takes the baby to burp her. “Ruth Baby Ginsberg is her costume.” 

“Mmmmm,” Miss Patty says, giving Paris a long look up and down. Her eyes linger on the leather jacket, the stylishly short hair cut. She makes a sweeping gesture towards Paris with her silver cigarette holder. “So this is your mystery man?” 

“This is _Paris_ ,” Rory tells her, eating a Twix. “You’ve met her. Many times.”

Patty shakes her head. “Of course, dear. But I didn’t know she was the father.”

“Do I look like I have a penis and a weak chin? I’m not the father,” Paris snaps. 

Rory shoots her a look as two startled looking kids veer off in the opposite direction. “Your loss,” Paris yells after them. “We’ve got premium candy! Brand name full size chocolate bars!”

“Stop scaring the small children,” Rory chides her.

“It’s Halloween,” Paris sniffs. “They’re supposed to be scared.”

“Just darling,” Miss Patty beams. “I mean, I don’t know _exactly_ how the science works, but it’s amazing the things they can do these days!”

“So she is the father? Oh boy. I’m gonna be sugaring the meatloaf and salting the pancakes for sure,” Babette laments.

“Come on honey,” Miss Patty says, waving at Paris and Rory as she leads Babette off the porch. “Let’s go see about finding you a sugar bowl.”

“Oh, I got a sugar bowl. We keep our keys in it, so we don’t lose ‘em.”

\------------------------

It’s been a rough December. Hector got sick and kicked off a plague in the house that took everyone down in turn. And the moment Hector and Helena were better, it was time for Doyle to swoop in and take them for the holidays. 

The brightest spot was a moment when Rory was too ill to get out of bed, but tried anyway when she heard Lora wailing in her crib. 

“Stay,” Paris ordered. “I’m on it.”

Rory looked up at her, her face pale and sweaty, and gave her a weak smile. “How about that? You want a doctor who makes house calls, all you have to do is live in a house with a doctor.”

Paris rocked the baby on her shoulder as she went into the bathroom and ran a wash cloth under cold water. She came back out and laid it gently on Rory’s forehead.

“It’s those Garfield twins,” Paris fumes. “Their mom is always wearing hippie dippie skirts and making her own soap. It smells like sandalwood and anti-vax sympathies to me.”

“It’s just a bug, Paris. A bad one, but mandatory vaccination policy--which I completely support--has nothing to do with it.” 

“I should subpoena their medical records.”

“Paris,” Rory said quietly. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

Paris didn’t say anything, but she took Lora over to the changing table and pulled a new diaper out of the stack. Rory watched her toss the old diaper into the pail, wipe the baby, secure the new diaper, and then touch noses with the baby and smile.

“Honestly, I don’t know how my mom did it,” Rory said. “I couldn’t do this on my own. I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to,” Paris replied, as she felt her stomach drop in a fluttery way that seemed completely out of place for a thirty-two year old executive.

Now it’s New Year’s Eve and Lane’s band is playing a big event at The Secret Bar. Paris isn’t thrilled about the idea of going, but it feels way too long since they’ve been out of the house to do more than run to the drug store or the pediatrician’s office. 

She calls the Dragonfly and gets ahold of Michel.

“For Rory? But of course,” he says in his thick French accent. “We are fully booked, but I can bump the Baptiste’s from the Cloisters Annex. Terrible people. They stole _many_ robes from the Independence Inn.”

Paris arranges for Clementina to stay overnight and they make plans to have dinner with Lorelai and Luke at the diner. Lorelai hand delivers their room key and presents them with front row tickets to the Star’s Hollow Musical Extravaganza, which is becoming a regional legend. “So bad, it’s good!” is the slogan emblazoned on posters and billboards all over New England. 

“The bad is so bad,” Lorelai tells them. “Think of the worst song you can imagine, and make it a hundred times worse. Then add incest jokes!”

“People heckle the performers,” Luke chimes in. “Viciously. It seems mean, but it’s a part of their whole - what was the word you used?”

“Gestalt,” Lorelai declares.

“Yes! They’re so bad, they’re bad in German!”

“Thanks for doing this,” Rory says, putting a gloved hand under Paris’ arm as they cross the green to the theater. “I know a Stars Hollow Rockin’ Eve isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.” 

“It’s no Times Square, but it’s alright.”

“They drop a replica of the Gazebo at midnight.”

“You’re joking.”

“Maybe. You’ll see.”

The musical is every bit as cringeworthy as it promised to be. Brad Langford was actually supposed to be playing the male lead, but he squeaked with terror at the sight of Paris and ran off stage in the middle of the opening number. The rest of the show is performed with Kirk and Taylor and Miss Patty trading off his songs.

There’s a line outside The Secret Bar, but Lane ushers them through the backstage entrance and leads them to a reserved table.

“I saw your husband’s picture in _People Magazine_ ,” she says. 

“Ex-husband.”

“He was on the red carpet as the plus one of a model.”

“I know. She has one name. Elmira.”

“And she’s the kind of girl who gets cast when they can’t afford the girl who looks just like Scarlett Johansson,” Lane agrees. “A total drip. And he was wearing a Skid Row t-shirt! Is he serious?”

Paris buys the first round. When she gets back to the table, Lane and Rory are deep in conversation.

“I don’t think it happens to everyone,” Lane is saying. “No one ever assumes you and I are a couple. Speaking of which - Taylor wants me to ask you if you’re available to be the Grand Marshall of the Pride Parade this year.”

“I am not joining Taylor’s parade.”

“If you refuse, he says he’s under pressure to import some gays from Woodbury.”

She sets their drinks down, and immediately hears a familiar squeal inches away from her right ear.

“Madeline?” Rory says, in disbelief. “Louise! What are you doing here?”

“We’re always looking for the hot spots, remember?” Louise chuckles. “A secret bar? Very hot. Hot enough to host the launch party for my new fragrance line.”

“That’s you?” Lane asks. “You’re Secrete Parfum?” 

"Secrete?” Paris repeats. “Like, liquid that oozes from your glands?”

“No, like a love letter you secrete inside your bra,” Madeline explains.

“But they sound awfully similar,” Rory points out. “Identical, actually.”

“Whatever,” Louise drawls, with a wave of her hand. “I needed a shell company to stash the cash from my divorce settlement.”

“You’re divorced?” Rory asks, trying to keep up. “From Marco? I’m so sorry.”

“Marco is ancient history,” Madeline giggles. “His money is all in socks.”

“Sex?” Lane asks, confusedly. "Or did you say stocks?"

“Socks. Louise has a luxury sock line. Very high end.”

“How many ex-husbands do you have?” Rory asks. 

“Marco,” Louise says, counting on her fingers. “Judson. Marco, again. Then Pierre. Does it count if it was less than 24 hours?”

“If Britney has to count it, so do you,” Madeline nods.

“Well. Then Kenneth, and now here we are.”

“The perfume smells really nice,” Madeline offers, holding out her wrist for Paris to sniff.

“Smells like alimony,” Paris tells her.

“Exactly what I was going for,” Louise nods. “Alimony, with an undertone of lavender and mint.”

“Well, we’d better get going, we need to work the crowd,” Madeline says. “But call me! Let’s do lunch!”

“Brunch,” Louise corrects her. “Brunch is the new lunch.”

“I love a meal that ends in ‘unch’,” Rory promises gamely.

Lane heads off to get ready for Hep Alien’s first set, leaving Paris and Rory alone at the table.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Rory says.

“That sounds serious.” Paris feels a ball of worry in her gut. What if Rory wants to move back to Stars Hollow? To be close to her mom and have a whole zany village to help raise her child?

But then the band is on stage and there’s a cascade of noise crashing over them, making conversation impossible.

They stop at two minutes to midnight, to give everyone a chance to grab some champagne.

With thirty seconds left in the year, Rory tries again.

“It’s just -” Rory continues, “this year has made me think about my life in a whole new way.”

“Because of motherhood?”

“And because of you,” Rory clarifies. “Because of us.”

Paris doesn’t know what to say. She’s maybe stopped breathing.

"TEN,” everyone shouts, as Louise holds up a giant clock.

“You’ve been so generous. You took me in with no questions asked. You treat Lora like your own. And at first I thought what I was feeling was gratitude.”

“NINE!”

“Gratitude,” Paris says, the word sounding hollow and flat.

“EIGHT!”

“But it’s not. It’s deeper than that. There’s a reason I went to you. Everyone else thinks you’re so tough, but I knew - I knew I could always could on you to take care of me. To be there for me. 

“SEVEN!”

“And I know that because I feel the same way about you. Maybe I always have.”

“SIX!”

“God, I wish they would stop counting!”

“FIVE!”

“You were saying,” Paris says, moving closer and taking Rory’s hand. There’s a pounding in her ears that might be her heart.

“FOUR!”

“That maybe I’ve always felt this way. Since you were stalking me through the halls of Chilton whispering Shakespeare and trying to intimidate me.”

“THREE!”

“Love is not love if it alters when it alteration finds,” Paris whispers. “Or bends with the remover to remove.”

“TWO!”

“Or maybe since Yale or since Spring Break - or since, I don’t know when, but as long as I can remember - Paris, I can’t imagine my life without you. And I don’t want to.”

“ONE!”

“What I’m trying to say is- oh, to hell with it,” Rory says, cupping her hands around Paris’s face and kissing her hard.

Cheers explode all around them, and balloons full of Secrete fall from the ceiling. Paris kisses Rory back with intensity as Lane’s band starts to play a punk version of Auld Lang Syne.

“You owe me five dollars,” Madeline tells Louise.

“Pfft. I called that in eleventh grade,” Louise laughs. She leans over and gives the band a request, and soon enough, they fumble their way through an impromptu version of Eternal Flame.

Paris barely notices, because Rory is still kissing her and there are hands everywhere and too many clothes, except they’re still in public, so they should maybe do something about that, but then Rory’s tongue dances against hers and she moans with how much her whole body is hungering for this. 

Somehow, they stumble back to the Annex and eventually make it into the room.

Paris would almost laugh if she wasn't otherwise occupied. But Rory is licking a pulse point on her neck and she feels like she might explode if they aren't both naked in the next thirty seconds. Still, somewhere in the back of her mind, she's planning to send Michel a thank you note.

The room has a two person hot tub and one giant king bed.

Happy New Year.


End file.
